Getting Dressed
by pantone tiger
Summary: Or undressed? Eames arrives at headquarters. Arthur finds him topless. Ariadne walks in. Harmless Arthur/Eames.


AN: This is my first fanfic in like 8 or 9 years. Woo! I don't know if I'm any good, but… thanks for giving this a shot, hope you enjoy it, lemme know what you think!

Setting: During the film. Cobb has just picked Eames and Yusof up from Mombasa, and is bringing them to their warehouse-hangout for the first time.

Pairing: Eames/Arthur. Is there any other? Psh.

The warehouse was empty when they arrived. Cobb showed him and Yusof around. There wasn't much to show - just bare-bones furniture and cold concrete floors. Still, Eames took a good walk around. He listened to the echoes of his leather shoes, peered out the windows, and caught wind of a faintly familiar smell. It was the sting of a well-made aftershave, but he wasn't quite sure why his attention was drawn to it.

His instincts were sometimes sharper than his thoughts.

A chill Parisian wind seeped in through the doors and twisted around him, making him shiver. He picked at his light summer suit – he had not changed since the flight out of Mombasa, and hence was dressed a little inappropriately for the temperate weather here. But he had a change of clothes in his slim suitcase, so it was an easy problem to solve. Nodding to Cobbs, he wandered away once again – picking his way around reclining chairs to a spot he had noticed earlier. The place where he'd caught that scent. There was a table here, a few silver suitcases neatly lined up on the surface. One was open, revealing the web of cables and tubing that was the hallmark of their trade. There was just enough room left for him to set down his own leather suitcase, flipping gold clasps open easily with one hand.

He tossed his jacket onto the table and set to unbuttoning his cotton shirt, humming lightly to himself. The shirt followed on top of the jacket, and was subsequently buried under his pants. He kicked his shoes off before picking out a fold of trousers from his case, and had just pulled them up to his waist when he heard someone clearing his throat behind him.

"Eames. Your clothes are on my things."

He glanced back over his shoulder, smiling like a cat when he saw the man behind him. For there stood Arthur – Cobb's faithful partner in crime, predictably dressed in an immaculate silver vest and deep red tie. He held a thick folder underneath his arm, the other hand buried in his pocket.

"My apologies, love. Will you forgive me if I let you pick out my tie?"

The younger man did not respond for a moment, just standing there with his eyes judgmentally trained on the man in front of him. Eames. The forger was just about one of the most unbearable people he'd ever met. He was… reckless. Unorganized. Absolutely absurd. And he was half-naked in the middle of his workspace. This gave Arthur no choice but to glance over his chest and shoulders, an inch shorter than himself but more solidly built. A faint tan line peeked over the hem of his trousers, riding low without a belt. This was a little too much detail – he pulled back, glancing at his folder and pointedly taking his attention off the forger. "Put a shirt on, will you?"

Eames chuckled, slipping his arms into the sleeves of a pinstriped shirt. Arthur and he were not on the friendliest of terms. They were nowhere near enemies, though – there was just this _tension_ hanging between them, these uncertain glances and curt conversations. Eames almost… enjoyed it, actually. It was interesting. Curious. He made a living out of studying people, and Arthur made a very fascinating study. He buttoned the shirt and tucked it into his pants, finding the same leather belt he'd used before. He was quite aware of Arthur's continuing presence, the point man flipping through his folder and not moving from his spot. He slid into a dark gray jacket, rubbing his arms to warm up the fabric, and himself. He'd gotten too used to the Kenyan heat, he thought.

"Cold?" Arthur asked, apparently having looked away from his fascinating research. He stepped forward to set his folder on the desk, gingerly moving away Eames' discarded clothing. He caught the scent of salt and seaside, of smoky spices and exotic lands. It made his mind wander for a while, thinking about Eames living in Mombasa. When Cobb had told him he was going to seek out the man, Arthur had known where he would be right away – he knew these things. He knew where all the major players were, and where to find him. Eames was not exactly the star of the extraction circuit, but he was unique. A forger – they were rare. Good ones, at least. Eames was the best. He wondered what he'd been doing there all this time, a skilled thief living by the African sea.

Eames had ignored his question. "So how about that tie, pet?"

Arthur bristled at the name, but predictably could not resist the offer. He stepped closer to look through Eames' briefcase, fingering the strips of patterned silk. The older man seemed to have a bolder taste than himself, but of all the things that bothered him about Eames, this was not much of a concern. He picked up a blue and gold one, raising it up so the man could take it from his hand.

Eames, however, was doing something else entirely. He felt the man's warm breath brush against his neck and jerked away in surprise, glancing back to find the forger standing oddly close. "It's you, isn't it?" The man mused, leaning in even closer. "That smell. Your aftershave. Smelled it clear across the warehouse, you know." Arthur cleared his throat, as if to tell Eames that he should move away, give him back his personal space… but the man did not, and when he turned around defensively he was simply left standing face to face with him, tense inches separating their faces. At a loss for what else he could do, Arthur reached up to slide his chosen tie around Eames' neck, tucking it under his collar and working it into a knot. His fingers were trembling, though. His mind was reeling. He couldn't concentrate – he tried to look at the tie, but his vision was filling with Eames' lips, full and smirking at him in his discomfort.

"I _am_ bloody cold." The forger said, quite suddenly. And before Arthur could react, he felt a strong hand snake up under his jacket, resting layered between the fine wool and the silk backing of his vest. Eames' lips grazed across his neck, their hips suddenly pressed together. He had nowhere to go – he was pressed up against the table, his fingers clasping at the edge in shock. He tried to pull away from the forger's lips, but once again he caught onto that warm ocean smell, Eames' stubble brushing up against his cheek.

Arthur tried to say something. But what kind of comeback did you use for _this?_ What kind of sneer, what kind of cold glare? It was too late for that. So he stood, rooted to the ground, as Eames' hands dug deeper. He felt his shirt slide out past his trousers, and mumbled something uncertain about the mess he was making. Eames chuckled, and Arthur felt the strong rocking motion in his shoulders as he did. The man's voice, muffled as it was, was… admittedly sensual, and hesitantly Arthur's hands began to crawl up to Eames' shoulders. Just as he did so, he felt the tips of the forger's strong fingers brush up against his skin. He couldn't help it – he shivered, tightening his grip on the man. This seemed to encourage him, though, and soon enough he felt the palms of his hands resting on either side of his waist. They were too far gone now, Arthur decided. No point in fighting it. He angled his face to the side, feeling Eames inch away in response, tilting his head upwards just a little – his lips not even an inch away –

Directly behind them, a key scratched at the lock on the back door. The two had just enough time to pull away from each other when Ariadne stepped into the warehouse, holding a massive roll of paper. She looked up in mild surprise to see Eames. She had never met the man, after all. But, more likely, what really caught her attention was their appearance. Eames with his collar up, his tie draped around his neck in what could hardly be considered a knot. And, far more odd, Arthur's shirt was pulled out from his trousers, flapping down underneath his vest. The young man cleared his throat again and tried to compose himself.

"Ariadne. Hi. This is Eames. He's our forger. You'll understand what I mean soon enough. Eames, this is Ariadne. She's our architect. This is her first job. I, uh…"

"Hello." The girl said, shifting her roll to her left arm so as to shake Arthur's hand. "Nice to meet you. What, um… what were you doing?" Her voice had a tinge of suspicion, which seemed to amuse Eames. He smiled, cat-like once again, and reached up to fix the knot in his tie.

"We were just getting dressed."


End file.
